


When the Levee Breaks

by waketosleep



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Bar Fight, M/M, drunk feelings sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-24
Updated: 2009-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-22 14:56:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/914547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waketosleep/pseuds/waketosleep
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even Spock has limits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Levee Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Posted to my journal in 2009.

It is typical that when Spock needs to speak to him about urgent matters in Engineering, Jim would be ignoring his communicator. Spock leaves it connected as he moves through the corridors of the ship, listening to the beeps coming from the speaker which indicate the continued lack of Captain Kirk on the other end. Just as he is nearing the turning that leads to his quarters, he pauses. There is a sound, just at the edge of his hearing.... The closer he gets, the louder it becomes, resolving itself into the chirp of a communicator. Spock stares down at the unit lying abandoned on the floor, trilling to itself, and snaps his shut. The noise ceases.

He releases an audible sigh as he picks up Jim's communicator and changes course for Sickbay.

When he gets there, Dr. McCoy is inspecting the stitches of a recently wounded ensign. He stands silently in the doorway, waiting for McCoy's attention.

“You're healing just fine, Huang; Nurse Chapel will change your dressings,” McCoy says, writing a note on his chart before turning to Spock. “What do you want now?”

Spock deliberately ignores the note of hostility; at low levels it is best interpreted as affability, or as close as the doctor will ever get. “Have you seen the captain recently?” he asks.

“He's off-duty, Mr. Spock. He'll be down on the planet, at least until Scotty finishes banging around with the warp drives. Can't resist the cabarets on Rigel II,” he says with a grin that looks quite lascivious.

Spock considers this. “The captain is in a bar?”

“Where else would he be? The library?”

“Your argument is logical. Shall I assume that he is in an establishment in proximity to the spaceport?”

“Well,” McCoy says, “the night's still young.”

Cryptic. Spock takes his leave.

*** 

Rigel II's spaceport is in a frankly suspicious area, filled with bright lights and the pervasive odours of bodies of all species. A layer of grime appears to cover everything. Spock enters three bars before finding Jim, unsurprisingly in the seediest of them.

He is assaulted by light and noise and damp heat upon entering, and is brushed against by far too many beings in the short walk to the bar. The impressions of their thoughts leave a sour taste in his mouth. Jim is near the bar, wearing the dark jacket and jeans from Earth which seem to be his preferred off-duty clothing. He is talking animatedly to an attractive Betazoid woman who is dressed in nearly non-existent clothing in very bright colours; she appears to be one of the cabaret dancers McCoy spoke of. The woman looks right at Spock as Jim is telling her a story, and Spock knows suddenly that she can feel his acknowledgement of her. Strangely, she nods at him, touches Jim's arm lightly, and excuses herself into the crowd.

Jim frowns, not understanding how he has 'struck out', as he calls it, and looks around, catching sight of Spock.

“Spock!” he calls, waving. “What are you doing here, man?” He has to shout to be heard over the music and ambient noise but Spock reads his lips so as not to misunderstand his words. His smile is too wide and his eyes too bright; he is reasonably intoxicated. Spock abandons his hopes of addressing the problem with the phaser arrays before morning.

Jim sets his drink—Saurian brandy, apparently—down on the bar and claps Spock on the arm, hard enough to jolt him. “Are you enjoying yourself, Captain?” Spock asks, suppressing a sigh.

“You bet!” Jim's grin is quick and easy with the alcohol in his system. “Love those dancers. Want me to hook you up with one?” He winks in a way Spock would never again like to see from a superior officer.

“As a matter of fact, Captain,” he answers, reaching into his pocket for Jim's communicator, “I am only here because you have misplaced your--” A strange movement in his peripheral vision stops him. Spock looks up, behind Jim, and sees a very large, heavily scarred Cardassian male leaning over where the brandy glass had been set.

The man is pouring something in Jim's drink.

Forgetting the communicator, Spock moves swiftly, years of combat experience guiding him, and shoves the Cardassian up against the bar, slamming his wrist down with an audible crack. The man howls and surges upward, shaking him off, and he is forced to dodge several clumsy but heavy blows before elbowing him in the ribs, grabbing an arm and twisting, shoving him up against the bar, leaning all his weight and strength on the hold until the man's arm might pop from its socket.

The bar is silent; Spock's ears ring in the deadness. The Cardassian man is gasping with pain but still managing to sound like he believes he has a chance of walking away without Spock's permission.

“What the fuck is your problem?” the man hisses.

Spock is at a loss for words, and pushes harder on the arm while he considers this. He has created quite a spectacle; the most logical course of action would simply have been to dispose of the doctored drink and get Jim a new one, if necessary (not that he requires it). Instead, Spock has allowed instinct—emotion—to overcome him and in another thirty seconds might have killed the man without a twinge of remorse.

Jim, who is conspicuously saying nothing and standing motionless behind him, would likely argue that he is capable of looking after himself.

Still.

With a huff of disgust (at the Cardassian, at himself, at the intoxicated Starfleet captain behind him), he pinches a nerve in the man's neck, and he drops, crashing over the bar and knocking over two empty bottles.

The action brings Jim to life, and he springs forward. “Spock, what the hell was that?”

Spock ignores him, searching the sticky bar surface for the thing he knocked from the Cardassian's hand at the beginning of the altercation. The empty vial has rolled to a stop next to the untouched brandy; he picks it up and sniffs the inside.

“This is a banned substance,” he says to the staring bartender, after satisfying himself that he does recognize the sedative. He hands the vial and the brandy glass over. “Please notify the local authorities of this man's intent to use it to commit a crime. Jim,” he says, seeing the bouncers approaching, “it is time for us to leave.” Taking the sputtering man by the elbow, he hauls him through the parting crowd of people ahead of the security.

Jim waits until they are back aboard the ship, in the corridor leading to their respective quarters, before rounding on him.

“What the fuck was all that, Spock? You have a thing for picking fights, now?”

Spock crosses his arms over his chest. The only logical course is to tell the truth.

“It was a matter of your safety, Captain.”

Jim glares at him. Spock reminds himself that the man is still quite intoxicated.

“I already have a mother, Spock. I am a grown man and I can win my own fights. That fucking Cardassian wasn't doing anything, anyway!”

“On the contrary, Jim,” Spock snaps, the high currents of emotion making his voice tight, “he was adding an illegal and powerful sedative to your unattended drink.” Cold satisfaction uncurls within him at the stupefied look on the Captain's face. “Your thanks is not necessary.”

He turns on his heel to leave, although it is nearly time for sleep and his quarters are in the other direction, intending simply to remove himself from Jim's presence as quickly as possible. Perhaps he should go to Engineering and take Mr. Scott's progress report on the warp drive modifications; he will almost certainly continue working on them through most of the gamma shift.

His exit and his thoughts are interrupted by a hand on his shoulder. The question of whether to acknowledge the hand or 'brush it off' arrests him, but at last he turns around, guarding his expression.

Jim stares at him for an instant and then seizes his elbow to drag him into the captain's quarters.

Spock blinks around him in confusion as the door hisses shut behind him—and locks, on Jim's command—and stops abruptly in the entryway even as Jim continues several steps into the seating area. Jim whirls on him, a slight wobble betraying the alcohol still in his system, and gives him a plainly vicious look.

“I can't fucking believe you were just going to leave it at that,” he snarls. “Well, actually, I can, but I thought you'd know better after all the time we've spent working together.”

Spock clasps his hands behind his back, employing the trick of appearing physically relaxed while remaining on alert for attack. It would not be unexpected for Jim to lash out, in this state.

“I do not see what else needs to be said about the matter, Captain.”

“Don't you 'Captain' me, you asshole. Since when do you go around defending my honour?”

Spock's mouth opens before he can stop himself. “Presumably someone must take that responsibility, _Captain_.”

Jim's face works through several complicated expressions before settling on shock. Spock might be fascinated by the play of emotion if he were not so incensed himself. But after a moment, Jim narrows his eyes and begins to advance, closing the distance between them with the same air of determination he carries into every battle. Spock squares his shoulders, feeling the nervous tension build in his limbs.

“You're a logical man, Spock,” Jim begins, his voice soft. He smiles, and Spock has an inkling that he is about to lose this fight. “You always like to take the most sensible course. In this situation, was beating the shit out of a Cardassian twice your size the most sensible course?”

Spock meets Jim's eyes but cannot answer. Jim answers for him.

“No. It wasn't.” His voice is still quiet and calm, and the glassy shine, the slight, unfocused look of inebriation in his eyes, makes it a little bit worse. 

“It wasn't the logical course, Spock, and you're Vulcan enough to hate acting illogically at the same time as you're human enough to do it anyway.” Jim is now firmly inside his personal space; Spock goes very still.

“Why'd you do the illogical thing, Spock?” His voice is faintly mocking. “Did you let your emotions get in the way?”

Spock can count Jim's eyelashes from this distance, and feels an odd compulsion to actually do it. “Yes,” he chokes out in a whisper.

The cold of Jim's quarters is nothing in the face of his body heat as he triumphantly presses Spock back against the locked door, his hands pressing hard into Spock's shoulders. Jim holds a slight weight advantage but truthfully Spock could shift him off easily if he wished. He does not believe that he wishes to.

Their first kiss begins as softly, as gently as Spock has been informed is normal among humans, but almost as soon as he begins returning the pressure of lips, it becomes harder, more urgent, and as he is pressed back into the wall he wonders if he could melt into it. Jim's cool tongue prods at his lips for access and then licks past his teeth into his mouth, caressing Spock's own, the temperature difference sending the same frisson down Spock's spine as it has every time he has kissed a human. The flavour of Saurian brandy is strong and when they separate, panting, and Jim peels himself away to stare at Spock, inviting a rush of cool air to wick away the body heat from his front, he finds that he can still taste the brandy on his tongue.

He swallows. “Jim. We should not—You have been drinking and—”

“Scared you're going to take advantage?” Jim asks, with a grin that stirs potent feelings.

“It seems unwise to pursue—”

“Spock.”

“Yes, Jim?”

“Shut up.”

Spock sighs inwardly. “All right.”

Jim shows that grin again and beckons to Spock with a crooked finger as he walks slowly backwards, in the direction of the sleeping area. Spock watches helplessly as he unzips his leather jacket and peels it off, throwing it over the back of a chair. Maintaining eye contact, he pauses to unzip a boot and kick it away, the other one following a step later. Spock watches avidly as Jim's hands wander to the hem of his thin shirt, and as somehow he manages not to back into the doorframe of the bedroom while pulling the shirt over his head.

Clearly the captain is practiced at this.

There is only a flicker in Jim's eyes to betray his intentions before he suddenly throws the shirt at Spock; he catches it in front of his face and lowers it to see Jim leaning in the doorway, magnificent and overtly sexual in only his jeans. Spock is riveted to the spot, throwing the shirt unheeded to the floor, as Jim's hands stray to the front of his pants, his fingers trailing down his own abdomen teasingly before he flicks open the button with one hand. He raises an eyebrow at Spock in what might be light mockery.

“Do I have to do everything myself?” he asks.

Nostrils flaring, Spock closes the distance between them swiftly, his lips capturing Jim's in a bruising kiss as he reaches blindly for the zipper and then eases the pants down over Jim's hips. They fall to the floor with a soft sound and Jim fists a hand in Spock's uniform shirt, pulling him along as he steps backward out of the rest of his clothing and angles them toward the bed.

“Off,” he says into Spock's mouth when they get there, tugging at the shirt as if to rip it, hauling up the hem. Spock is loathe to stop kissing him but forces himself away long enough to remove his shirt, shivering a little when the air touches his sensitized skin.

Jim frowns. “Cold? Don't worry, I'll warm you up.”

He makes good on his promise right away by leaning in to slide his broad hands over Spock's sides and up his spine, pressing kisses under his collarbone. The touches of hands and lips are teasing spots of warmth and all Spock can do is hold on right back, grasping wherever he can find skin, as Jim slides down his body to the fastenings of his pants. The skin contact is enough to skim over the surface of Jim's feelings, and they mirror and amplify Spock's own: anticipation, desire, a glimmer of shaking need. Spock gasps as his pants are undone and he is entirely exposed, at the shock of cold and at the surge of Jim's desire he can suddenly feel.

Jim rises again and presses in close, wrapping himself around Spock and turning to push him down onto the rough bedcovers. He stares up at Jim and they simply look at each other for a moment, breathing the same air, before Jim leans down to kiss him and slides a hand down his chest, over his stomach, to wrap around him, and Spock squeezes his eyes shut against the sensations and moans.

They sigh and move together, Jim's hand between them and Spock touching any part of Jim he can reach, fingertips ghosting over his smooth, tanned skin as he drinks in emotions. He is warm and Jim is beginning to sweat as they rock together with urgency, making small sounds of want and approval.

“Just... Spock, please,” Jim manages, and Spock understands what he wants, reaching down where he hasn't yet touched to take Jim in hand and move his wrist, first slowly and then harder, with small twists of his hand that make Jim's eyes flutter shut each time until he discovers the best way, the way that makes Jim bury his face in Spock's shoulder, in the base of his neck, and pant, maybe forming words against his skin. He doesn't need to make any sound because Spock knows what he is saying.

Soon Jim can handle no more and shifts to take them both in hand at once, and the sensations make Spock's eyes roll back in his head, and Jim encourages him softly as he comes, and follows with a groan. He manages a few more light strokes before he crumples, dropping onto the rumpled bed and wrapping himself around Spock, who curls into the warmth. Soon, he will have to maneuver them under the covers, but for a few minutes, as his pounding heart subsides and the tingles of euphoria fade to a pleasant buzz, he is content to lie like this.

He dozes until Jim is pushing at him, tugging the blankets up already, only to press along his side once again. They lay in silence for a long moment.

“Why were you in the bar tonight, anyway?” Jim says sleepily.

For a moment, he has no idea what Jim could be talking about. Then he remembers.

“Your communicator,” he says, somewhat embarrassed. “It is still in the pocket of my pants.”

Jim laughs into his shoulder.

 

THE END


End file.
